The Odds of Dying
by Victory32
Summary: Short One-Shot set in season 2. The odds you die from this or that… It doesn't really matter. You either die or you don't. Please read and review.


**Title:** Odds of dying…

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**Summary:** Short One-Shot. The odds you die from this or that… It doesn't really matter. You either die or you don't. Season two spoilers.

Once during a high school science class his teacher, a balding man in his late forties, posted a comprehensive table showing the odds of dying from any of a variety of causes. Dean had scrutinized the list, run the numbers over in his head and observed that the likelihood of these events happening to his family about tripled just simply because of their lifestyle.

From that point on there had always been something in the back of his mind telling him that the day would come when he and his family would become another statistic adding their names to the chart on the wall. It would be the day when Winchester luck ran its course and got the best of them all.

He didn't know the exact circumstances around which it would occur, but he had always tried to imagine it.

He'd imagined on more than one occasion it would be a car wreck that would finally take his dad or Sam from him.

The odds were high enough. And every time he'd feel the wheel of the Impala jerk out of his control on an icy road or during a down pour in the middle of spring Dean would think about the fact that the average person faced an eighty-five to one chance that they would perish in a car wreck. In those moments he'd look over at his younger brother and think about how their odds seemed so much higher beings they practically lived on the road.

Then there were days, particularly after any hunt where they found themselves climbing more stairs than he could count, that Dean would imagine Sam falling to his death. Being shoved from another window, off a roof, god knows. Those odds stood at one in one hundred eighty-four.

On the days that he spent time digging a bullet from Sam's shoulder or from his leg Dean would imagine the next time. The next time when he wouldn't even have the chance to apply pressure to the wound. The time that would remind him that no matter how much of a superhero he wanted to be, it wouldn't be enough to stop the blood or the infection that was sure to spread, and he'd bury his brother that way. With a few extra bullet holes in his skin. The odds of being shot to death stood at three hundred to one.

Then there was his personal favorite. The odds of dying from a dog bite or attack; one in one hundred nineteen thousand. Of course the National Safety Council probably hadn't included werewolves in that estimate, but still, it could happen. He knows this for a fact.

The day that he lost his father Dean thought about the comprehensive charts, about the fact that they would reflect a few statistical errors now. The first being his complete recovery from a serious motor vehicle accident (at least it was labeled as an MVA according to the hospital and police records). He knew statistically speaking, he was the eight-fifth man in line that night— _he should have died._

The second error of course being the _'Stress induced heart attack' _his father had sustained. _Heart attack, _that's what the doctors had called it. One in six Americans lost their lives to heart disease after all. And because of this John Winchester's death certificate would come to harbor the words _'Manner of Death; Natural Causes'_ in black ink. Probably, Dean surmised, because the medical examiner had no conceivable way to recognize a demon's handy work from that of any other cause, in much the same way that the National Safety Council didn't keep stats on crossroad deals as a possible cause of death.

And then came the night he held Sam in his arms, held him as he died. The odds, Dean remembered, of being stabbed to death, three-hundred fifty to one. And Sam… Sam of all the goddamn people in the entire universe had to pull that card. Right there. Right in front of him.

Number three hundred and fifty step right up.

'_Sam, Sam, Sam. Hey, hey... Come here, come here, let me look at you. Oh, hey look, hey look at me it's not even that bad. It's not even that bad, alright? Sammy, Sam! Hey, listen to me, we are going to patch you up, okay... You'll be as good as new. Huh? I'm going to take care of you. I'm going to take care of you. I gotcha. It's my job, right, watch out for my pain-in-the-ass little brother... Sam... Sam... Sam! Sammy! No.. no-n-n-n-n-no. Oh god... Oh god... Sam!' _

He could see it now; as he knelt down to begin digging at the dirt below his feet. Some guy in a suit and tie, sitting in his cubical, assigned to keep stats on morbid things like death. Grimly adding a tally mark to a comprehensive chart. A tally mark he's added because of a death certificate that has crossed his desk. A death certificate for one: Samuel Winchester. _'Manner of Death; Homicide (Fatal Stab Wound)'._

Letting his head lull backward, he sucked in the air of defeat and disappointment that lingered around him. _'I always tried to protect you...Keep you safe...Dad didn't even need to tell me. It was just always my responsibility, you know? It's like I had one job... I had one job... And I screwed it up. I blew it. And for that, I'm sorry. I guess that's what I do. I let down the people I love. I let Dad down. And now I guess I'm just supposed to let you down, too. How can I? How am I supposed to live with that? What am I supposed to do? Sammy. God. What am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to do?'_

The answer to that question had come quickly. Once the tears dried, and his mind began to function beyond a level of fear and anger, he knew exactly what to do. It was ironic however; that what he had been contemplating was the one statistic on that comprehensive chart he'd never imagined himself falling prey to. And yet here he was. Maybe it was inevitable.

Maybe, because as it turned out one person out of every one hundred fifteen fell victim to it; self-induced harm.

Dean wasn't entirely sure what he was about to do could really be considered an attempted suicide, but it was so damn close he was still having trouble distinguishing any difference at all. Wasn't it suicidal, after all, Dean wondered, if someone willingly walked into hell knowing there was no imaginable way out?

Covering the box he'd placed in the center of a crossroad with dirt, he rose.

If he could go back to that high school science class right now, he'd burn that chart. Because he knows now, the manner of death—the odds you die from this or that…

It doesn't really matter.

You either die or you don't.

Dean just happens to know, as Winchester luck would have it, that you _can_ raise the dead—it's just gonna cost you.

_**A/N: If you have a chance please leave a comment. I always love to hear from you guys! **_


End file.
